


If Only in My Dreams

by shipsdrifting



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Christmas, Fluff, Hot Chocolate, M/M, Pining, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipsdrifting/pseuds/shipsdrifting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a snowstorm delays their flights and strands them both at their university during the start of winter break, Harry and Louis find each other. And with a little help from their friends, they might even get to keep each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only in My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsthesweetest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsthesweetest/gifts).



> The prompt was for a fic where musician!Harry and theater-major!Louis get stranded together over the break because of a snowstorm. I kind of went off and made a few changes: adapted it to be winter break, added some heaping helpings of fluff and angst and then more fluff, etc. So I hope that's okay, and I hope you like it! Thanks for the fun prompt, and happy holidays!
> 
> All the thanks and love to my beta for indulging me when you had much better things to do.

Louis really, really has to pee.

He's had to pee since this morning, when he'd made himself drink a disgustingly giant, dark coffee to wake himself up enough to go and hand in his final essay on Italian Renaissance theater. And immediately afterwards, he'd had to rush to the theater classrooms, where he'd drunk a whole bottle of water after rehearsing, and before delivering, his final scene for his speech and body training class.

Louis really, really has to pee, but like the past few weeks – or maybe the past few months; he doesn't even remember at this point – there's just no _time._ The post office picks up the packages for the day at 12:00, and it's currently 11:54 and he _has_ to fit this huge, obnoxiously neon-orange plastic bag of his little sisters' Christmas gifts into this box so that they’ll get it in time for Christmas morning.

He deeply regrets agreeing to pick up these bright boyband-themed presents from the special winter popup shop they’d had open in New York City during his trip there last month. He also regrets opting not to mail them home immediately, but instead to wait to bring them home himself on his return home for winter break.

Because of _course,_ a massive blizzard is coming in tomorrow evening, two days before Christmas, and his flight tomorrow has already been cancelled and rescheduled. And he's not even going to make it in time for Christmas day. With the storm grounding nearly an entire day's worth of flights before the holidays and the subsequent chaos of so much rescheduling, the airline had told him that the earliest flight he could get was in the morning on the 26 th.

His mom had _promised_ the girls that Santa would deliver the exact gifts they asked for on Christmas morning. So when she’d found out about his flight, she'd asked Louis if he could get them out today, promising that she'd pay him back for the expedited 2-day shipping costs that total nearly as much as the gifts themselves but that will, hopefully, guarantee they get out fast enough to beat the storm and arrive on time.

That is, _if_ he can figure out how to fit the damn things into the box.

His mind is scattered in too many places, fogged over by his lack of sleep and punctuated by the pressure in his bladder, as he tries to cross his legs while simultaneously pressing his whole weight down to close to box and reaching for the packing tape to secure the flaps. But the tape can’t hold the cardboard, and the box just springs back open again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he grits his teeth, as a pillow bearing a picture of a boy with a lip ring and ugly purple hair smiles up at him as if to mock him. He glances at the digital clock on the wall above the counter; it's 11:56 now, the red numbers blink. “Fuck!”

“Er. Do you need some help?”

The guy's voice comes from behind him, deep and slow and a little hesitant. Louis shrugs and attempts to cram the bag in at a different angle to close the box again. He does _not_ have time for this.

“I could get you a bigger box?” the voice tries again.

Right, a bigger box. Brilliant idea; why didn't he think of that? Oh, right  –

“Already paid for the label,” Louis grunts without looking back. That had been another poor, sleep-deprived decision: he'd decided to print the label for this sized box, weighing it on the postage scale open with the bag of presents balanced on top of it, _before_ he'd actually fit everything inside.

“Ugh,” he groans, apparently louder than he thought, because suddenly he senses the presence moving closer and sidling in beside him. Louis doesn't give either of them the satisfaction of looking up, but he can tell the figure is tall and a little gangly, in a long but fitted black coat. He still sounds unsure.

“Here, I think if you stacked these – can I?”

A hand – a big hand, a nice hand, not that Louis notices  – reaches in carefully and removes the books from inside the bag to lay them flat on the bottom of the box. Louis watches skeptically as the hand rearranges the pillows and the shirts and the teddy bears so that they more evenly fill in the space, everything sticking out slightly less than before.

“Here, let me hold this  – ” The boy pushes down the ugly pillow with one hand and slides it out as Louis closes the flaps on the box, noting somewhat begrudgingly that now they can actually almost fold flat. He holds them down while the boy deftly zips across the top of the box with a generous amount of packing tape, and miraculously, it actually seems to stay shut. Louis presses down along the tape one last time and gives the box a shake to make sure it's secure (it is), and finally, he shoves it into the chute at the end of the counter.

11:58, the clock says; hopefully, that means it will arrive by Christmas Eve, his mom will be happy, and his sisters won't lose all their respect for Santa Claus. Or something.

That's one crisis averted, then. Louis exhales slowly, squeezes his eyes shut and presses his palms against his forehead for a moment. Then he composes himself, and he turns to look up and thank the helpful stranger just as the guy starts talking:

“So, who really likes boybands?”

As his eyes finally settle on the boy’s face, he actually wonders if all the sleep deprivation has finally caught up and caused him to hallucinate. He doesn't know what he had been expecting – maybe someone older, or maybe someone more dirty-hipster-like – but he was _not_ expecting the guy he comes face to face with. He looks a little younger than Louis, face soft in the fluorescent white light, eyes big and green, and a smile quirking in the corners of his lips. A gray beanie covers his head, a few springy locks of hair poking out from the bottom.

Louis must spend too long staring, because the guy shifts on his feet. Conversation, right.

“Thank you!” he blurts out. “For helping me, I mean. You really saved me – needed to get this out by noon to get it home by Christmas. It's for my little sisters; all they asked for for Christmas was this stuff, and I got it at this special shop when I went to New York, but now my flight was cancelled for the storm so I'm not flying home 'til after Christmas, and  –” Well, he's rambling. “Anyway, it's not for _me_!” He throws up his hands.

The guy just keeps grinning, but he shrugs. “I dunno, they're alright. Got a few good songs on the latest album, at least.” Louis barely registers the words, because he's realizing that the boy's voice is like velvet, deep and smooth. But it's also kind of low and gravelly. It's like velvety gravel. Is velvety gravel a thing?

“I'm Harry, by the way,” he holds out a hand.

“Louis,” he shoots out his own to shake Harry's, and they hold each other's hands and glances for a beat before Harry releases him and turns as if to start heading for the door. Louis follows. “Thanks for your help, again, Harry. I mean it. Saved me, like, thirty bucks on super expedited shipping, on topof what I already paid.”

“You're welcome,” Harry drawls. “I'm glad to help. My flight was cancelled, too, actually. Got it rescheduled for the 25th, though, so I'll be there in time for Christmas dinner and everything.”

Louis holds open the door and follows him out into the cold winter air. A dusting of light snow is falling, and Harry throws a ridiculously fluffy scarf around his neck.

He holds back commenting on that, and instead asks, “What were you doing here, anyway? Aside from sweeping in to save struggling package-senders?”

Harry ducks down his head with a chuckle. “I was just stopping to mail a letter.” He shrugs. “I just happened to see you on my way out, and like, you looked like you were having a bit of trouble and could use some help, is all.”

“You were mailing a letter?” Louis raises an eyebrow and hopes the expression is visible even under his hat. “How old _are_ you?”

“I like letters!” Harry protests, mixed with a laugh. “I do, really. Better than email or anything. It's so much more _personal_.”Then he adds, “and I'm 18, since you asked.”

Louis hadn't actually meant the question in that way, but it's useful information. _Smooth,_ he congratulates his subconscious.

“I'm 20,” Louis offers. “Third year, here,” he motions toward the campus buildings across the street.

Harry's eyes widen a bit. “Oh – cool. I'm a freshman. Obviously.”

“Freshman going on 80,” Louis teases, and Harry shakes his head again, but he also smiles, a little dimple popping in on the right corner of his mouth. Louis wants to see how deep that dimple can get; he wonders if there's one on the other side of his face, too, and he wonders if maybe he can make both of them appear.

He shakes that thought out of his mind as they stop at the crosswalk at the corner of the street. He should probably turn and head home now, before he makes a complete fool of himself. He's followed Harry this far toward the edge of campus, and as much as he'd like to keep walking with him, flirt with him, and maybe even get his number, Louis can feel his bladder about ready to burst, and he really, really does not want to pee himself in front of this nice, pretty, lovely boy.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“You look like you're kinda – in pain?”

Louis realizes that his legs _are_ kind of twisted together uncomfortably, and he's hunched forward a bit. He tries to come up with a better excuse, but his brain is sleep-deprived and muddled by the intense bladder pressure, so he just tells the truth.

“No, sorry. I just _really_ have to pee,” he confesses with a grimace. “I had a final this morning – two, actually - and then I found out about my flight and I had to run home and then run to the post office and – yeah. Haven't had time to, so I should probably get home. Might not even last that long, to be honest.”

Harry looks like he's struggling to suppress a laugh, but instead he points at the building across the street in front of them. “Hey, you know, my dorm's right here. First floor and everything. You can come use our bathroom, if you want.”

“Really? That would be amazing.” Louis is too pleased by the prospect to convince himself otherwise, that maybe it’s not appropriate to invite yourself home with a hot guy you just met only to use his toilet. So he follows Harry up the path to the building, down the hallway and, finally, into the little dorm room.

“Bathroom's right -”

“Yes, thank god,” he tries not to slam the door behind him.

When he gets out, Harry is standing exactly where he left him, except with beanie in hand. It's released a mess of brown curls, starting to flow down to his neck, and Louis actually has to stop himself from gaping as he takes it in. Strictly speaking, it takes far too long for him to notice that there's a second boy in the room, all neat, short hair and big brown eyes.

“Hi!” the boy waves from where he's knelt beside a suitcase on the floor.

“This is my roommate Liam,” Harry explains. “Liam, this is Louis. I met him at the post office and he really had to pee so I let him come here.” Liam looks a bit confused, but he accepts the explanation readily enough. He nods politely before going back to filling the luggage.

“Liam's flying out today. He's lucky, got out before the storm.” He turns to Liam. “Louis had a flight that got cancelled tomorrow, too.”

“Sorry,” Liam says genuinely, looking up, and then he cocks his head with a little eyebrow raise. “You know, you guys should hang out while you're stranded – Harry's been whining about being an _orphan_ for Christmas morning.”

“Have not!” Harry protests, and Liam laughs.

“Besides,” he continues, “you've been even worse than me, complaining about being _all alone_ for New Year’s,” Harry accuses. “You won't even be alone!”

Liam sighs. “Yeah, my best friend's abandoning me to go visit his _boyfriend_. There goes our New Year’s party – well, we'll still have it, of course, but it won't be the same without him,” he says morosely. “Even if Harry's coming.”

“Thanks a lot!” Harry throws what can only be a dirty sock from the floor, and it hits Liam's back.

Louis looks between them; he's been floundering a bit in the banter. “So you're both from the same place?”

“Not really,” Harry says. “Well, kind of – we didn't know each other when we moved in or anything, but it turns out we grew up only like a couple hours away. Minnesota, a bit outside Minneapolis,” he adds, before Louis asks. “So yeah, I'm going over to his for New Year’s. Not that he appreciates it, clearly.” He waggles a finger.

Liam throws the sock back onto Harry's bed with an eyeroll. “Anyways,” he's zipping the luggage now, “I'll actually have to get going now.”

“Right, and I should leave, too.” Louis says, because he's definitely overstaying his welcome, and also, _sleep._ ” Nice meeting you both,” he nods. “And thanks for the help, again, Harry. And the bathroom,” he adds with a grin.

“No problem,” Harry answers. “Glad to help.”

Liam stands up and brushes himself off. “Good to meet you, too. Sorry about your flight.”

“Well,” Louis shrugs. “On the bright side, at least I'll actually a day of completely free time, for once.” Which is true; after this semester, he needs it. “Now I have the whole morning to go make a giant snowman in the park, or something – have some kind of winter fun before the weather goes to shit and my electricity goes out and I get stuck living in the library.” He sighs.

“Anyways, silver lining.” He kind of really wants to see Harry again, but he can't think of a non-creepy way to get that across. “Snowman, tomorrow morning.” He's half-kidding; he may very well end up going out and doing just that, but mostly he wants to know if Harry will take the bait, inquire for more details and maybe suggest joining him. But he just kind of stands there with his goofy grin, so Louis shoots one back and thanks him again, says goodbye, and heads home.

***           

Harry didn't _actually_ go out with the intention of finding Louis in the park. It's just that he happened to want to pick up something for breakfast this morning, and walking through the park happens to be the best way to get to the convenience store. Well, maybe there are better ways, but it's a good way, at least. The fact that he decided to slide his snow gloves into his coat pocket before he left has nothing to do with it. And if he's also wearing that green scarf that everyone always says brings out his eyes, then, well, that's a coincidence, too.

Anyway, he didn't expect to actually find Louis here at the corner of the park. But there he is, wrapped in his same puffy brown coat, red scarf and matching beanie, rolling a sizeable ball of snow along the ground.

Harry watches him work for a moment. He could just keep walking past; Louis wouldn’t notice if he just walked away now, and he probably doesn’t want company anyway. But then again, he did mention that he’d be here, and that’s almost like an invitation, right? Before he loses what little nerve he has left, Harry decides to reach down, pack a small snowball in his bare hand, and toss it at Louis' back. It barely hits him, but Louis whips his head around anyways before his eyes settle in Harry’s direction.

“Harry?” He thinks he sees Louis’ sharp eyes soften a bit, but he can’t be sure. “You stalking me now?”

Harry's face grows a little hot. “No, no. I was just on my way to the store, sorry.” He starts walking past, hands gripping the insides of his pockets.

“I'm just _kidding_ ,” Louis says then, and tosses a handful of loose snow from his giant snowball in Harry's general direction. Harry sidesteps it and chuckles a little nervously. And then Louis motions down: “wanna help?”

Harry hopes he doesn't nod too enthusiastically or look too suspicious taking out his conveniently located snow gloves. But Louis just turns and continues to roll the ball and build it up, stopping every few steps to pat down the clumps of snow gathering on it.

“That's pretty impressive,” Harry comments, as he leans down to mirror Louis’ motions. “I've never been able to do that – roll out a snowman out on the ground like that, I mean, the way they do in cartoons and stuff.”

Louis looks up at him, blue eyes shining through his long lashes. “The key to making a great snowman, young Harold, is the temperature. Too hot or cold and the snow won’t pack right. But now, see, it's just about freezing, and that’s the perfect temperature.”

“Noted,” Harry nods.

They resume rolling the snowball together, heaving to turn it over on the ground; it's huge, nearly half Harry’s height now, and it's even heavier than it looks. Finally they roll it to a stop on the ground. It's a little lumpy and misshapen-looking, but they smooth it out enough so it sits firmly in the snow.

Harry packs a big snowball and they start again together, rolling and packing and smoothing, this time stopping when it's a bit smaller. Harry bends over to pick it up, but Louis stops him.

“Hey, you’ll hurt your back, let me help.” Harry agrees begrudgingly, though it is pretty heavy. He tries not to notice how their gloved fingertips touch as they lift it up from the ground, clutched against each of their chests,  and slowly raise it up to put it on top of the first. Louis pushes at it and furrows his brow as it wobbles. He twists it down a bit and starts packing snow in between, ostensibly to secure them better together.

“I'll start on giving him a head while you work on those balls,” Harry suggests in an attempt to be helpful, before he realizes he may have wanted to word that a little more carefully.

Louis looks up at him, eyebrows raised, lips pressed together as if he’s trying not to laugh, “I'll refrain from commenting on that,” he says after a beat.

It's just as well, because when he turns around to keep rolling his snowball, he notices there’s a kid standing behind him a distance away, a little girl bundled in a bright yellow jacket, her parent hovering shortly behind. She watches them with wonder for a moment before Louis gives her a little wave. She must take that as a cue, because she gallops through the snow toward them, coat flapping behind her.

“I like your snowman,” she says, gazing up in awe. She must be four or five years old. “'s bigger than me!”

Harry watches as Louis immediately walks over and leans down to coo, “thank you,” and she looks up at him with a semi-toothless smile. “What’s your name?”

“Emily,” she answers dutifully. “I’m 5!” She holds out her full hand.

“That’s a lovely name, Emily. I’m Louis, and this is my friend Harry.”

“Pleased to meet you, Emily,” Harry waves from his spot on the ground then, and she giggles again.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“I’m 18,” Harry responds -

“And I’m 20,” Louis interjects. “ _Much_ older than him, you know,” he winks. “I’m teaching him how to make a snowman,” he says in a stage-whisper. “He doesn’t know how!” Emily giggles, and Harry starts to protest, but Louis cuts him off with a grin.

“We’re trying to make the biggest snowman in the world,” he continues animatedly, and Emily’s eyes widen.“We’re making the head now, right, Harry?” he motions, and Harry rolls the snowball over so they can all look at it.

“He needs a face!” She blurts out then, and Louis chuckles.

“He does - see, I told you, Harry doesn’t know how to do it!“

She turns her head to one side. “And he needs arms, too.”

“You’re right,” Louis nods. “Do you think you could help us find some branches and things for his arms and his face?” She nods quickly and then scampers off.

“Let's put the head on, then,” Louis stands on tiptoes to dust off the top of the snowman and reaches to take the ball from Harry’s arms. Harry pulls away.

“Allow me. I'm _much_ taller than you, you know,” Harry parrots, holding the ball above his head. Louis rolls his eyes but lets Harry place it on top anyways. Harry smirks and Louis pokes him in the stomach, but before Harry can react, the little girl is back, carrying a handful of objects – leaves, twigs, woodchips, some little red berries, a weird, curly green vine she must have pulled off the side of one of the adjacent building  – and dumping it unceremoniously on the ground in front of them.

“Perfect!” Louis enthuses. To be honest, she's brought back sort of a hodgepodge assortment, but Louis grins and kneels down to discuss with her and decide what goes where, instructing Harry on how to place everything. The snowman gets two different-sized leaf eyes, a twig for a nose, a jagged mouth of woodchips, and berries for buttons.

“One more thing,” Louis ponders. He pulls apart some of the vines and shakes off the snow. He gives it to her and whispers something in her ear before scooping to lift her up to the level of the snowman's head, where she plops the pile down and arranges it so some of the spirals stick up.

He puts her down and she looks between Harry and the snowman a few times before giggling, “Now it looks like you!” Louis starts cracking up.

“Hey!” Harry shakes his head in mock outrage, but he can’t help but laugh, too.

They all put the snowman's arms in, arrange them so that he's waving, and decorate him with some more buttons, until finally Emily’s mom calls out that it's time to go. Louis thanks her for her help, and she giggles and runs back, proudly chattering and motioning at the snowman as if her mom hasn't been watching the whole time.

Louis watches for a moment before he plops down beside the snowman in a mostly-undisturbed patch of snow. Harry sits down beside him.

“You're really good with kids,” he comments, fondness seeping out in his voice despite himself.

Louis shrugs. “My little sisters are only a bit older than that,” he smiles softly. “Plus, I work at this summer camp, for theater – it's like a madhouse of hyperactive kids; you learn how to work with them.”

“Wow, that sounds fun,” Harry feels a sudden surge of admiration for him. But then a different kind of smile, slightly grimace-like, appears on his face, and he flops back in the snow.

“It is, most of the time.”  Harry raises an eyebrow, and he starts waving his arms to make a messy snow angel. “They kept me on during this semester, to help with the Fall production for the middle-school kids, which – it was still fun, really, but their last rehearsals and performances were over the past month, at the same time _my_ finals were just starting, and - yeah, to be honest, it was hellish at times. Haven’t had proper sleep in weeks; ‘s why I was so out of it yesterday.” He hops up carefully to look at his work.

Harry scoots over and spreads his arms to make his own snow angel, too, beside Louis'. Despite his distance, he finds upon standing up that the wings touch.

“Yours is better than mine,” Louis comments, and Harry grins. “And now I’ve got snow in my gloves,” he complains, pulling up his sleeve to dig out the wet clumps of snow gathered at his wrist.

“Me too,” Harry start to shake some of the snow out from his gloves before it melts.

“Hey,” Louis speaks suddenly. “Do you wanna go inside somewhere - get coffee or something? Before we freeze? The coffee shop up there” -  he motions in a vague direction in front of them - “has really good hot chocolate, too.”

“Hot chocolate sounds good,” Harry agrees, silently applauding to himself, because he really didn’t want his time with Louis to end again. He gets the feeling he might never want his time with Louis to end.

They talk easily as they walk the few blocks to the hot chocolate place, and they talk more while they drink the delicious hot chocolate, steam billowing up between their faces as they sit at a cozy two-person table by the window.

Harry learns that Louis not only has younger sisters – he already knew that – but that in fact he has _four_ little sisters, whom he obviously adores. His eyes crinkle when he talks about them: how they’re always so happy to see him when he comes home; how the twins tried to confuse him by switching places when he went home last summer but he can always tell the difference; how the oldest, Lottie, is already in her first year of _high school_ and he can't believe it.

He learns that Louis is a drama major and loves acting. He’s taken the past semester off from any formal acting role, but he’s planning to audition for the school’s Spring show next semester. When Harry asks, he reveals his all-time favorite show is _Grease,_ in part because he starred in his own high school production of it. It also happened to be the show that the kids at the playhouse put on this Fall, and one of the reasons they asked Louis to help.

That's also the reason Louis was up and out so early this morning, as he’d mentioned before. “I think I've lost the ability to sleep in,” he snorts. “Not used to more than 5 hours of sleep, either. I’ve just resigned myself to always looking tired and out of it.” He holds his arms out to mime a zombie-like staggering, and Harry giggles.

Harry doesn't think he looks tired or out of it. He's practically glowing, Harry thinks, the way his face lights up when he talks about his family and his life and asks Harry about his with genuine interest.

“And why were you up so early today, then, Harold? Other than to stalk me.”

“That's not my name,” Harry giggles despite himself, “And I wasn't _stalking_ you. I told you, I was just going to get breakfast.”

“You never did eat breakfast, then?” Harry shrugs, and Louis narrows his eyes. “You must be starving.”

“I’m eating hot chocolate _right now_  – ”

“That's not a proper breakfast,” Louis chastises, waggling his finger, “or lunch. Let me get you a sandwich or something here – c’mon, it's the least I can do after you saved me from spending who knows how much money at the post office yesterday.”

After some prodding, Harry finally gives in, and Louis bounds up to the counter to order for them. He returns with two sandwiches  – “Paninis,” Harry corrects, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“Pretentious paninis.”

“Precious pesto paninis,” Harry points to Louis’.

“Pompous pizza paninis,” Louis counters, motioning at Harry's just as he takes a bite.

Harry squints at the menu on the wall. “Positively...potato panini?” he tries, unable to think of anything better, and they both crack up.

After lunch, they meander down the street with no particular destination in mind, and they end up in front of the little toy store by the corner of campus. “Hey, this is perfect,” Harry stops excitedly.  “I wanted to get something for my younger cousins that are coming up for Christmas.”

After they spend far too much time amusing themselves with the animal puppets and maybe pressing the buttons on all the talking dolls, eliciting a stern look from the old woman at the cash register, they come upon the perfect gift. It looks like a cross between a shovel and a claw, but it’s actually a snowball-thrower that boasts it can make perfectly round snowballs, and chuck them pretty far, too.

Harry buys two, and naturally, they have to test them out when they get back outside. At first they just figure out how to use them, carefully scooping and then dropping the snowballs on the ground. But then Louis surprises him with a snowball to the chest, breaking apart in a crumble of powdery snow, and then it’s an all-out snowball fight. Louis leaps dramatically to dodge Harry’s clumsy throws and calculates his own, though he only has slightly more success as they both weave around passers-by on the sidewalks.

They’re breathing hard with laugher by the time they end up at the frozen pond a few blocks away. They call a truce, standing on the icy shore, until they start a new competition: chucking snowballs out over the lake to see who can throw the farthest. They’re more evenly matched, though Louis continues to insist that he’s still perfecting the technique.

The wind has been gentle all morning, but suddenly it starts to pick up in freezing gusts, until their snowballs begin to curve sideways in the air. Then sharp pellets of snow start to fall, too, pelting them nearly horizontally until they run for cover under the bus stop overhang.

“That'll be the storm, then,” Louis comments, shaking his head.

Harry looks at his watch. “Two o’clock, yeah. My flight was supposed to be at three. Says the wind's gonna be almost 20 miles per hour, by then.”

“And it'll get even higher, of course, with the gusts and all that.” Louis sighs. “I guarantee my electricity's gonna go out by, like, eight. Maybe earlier,” he declares. “Last year there was a storm even smaller than this one, and it was out for almost two days. My apartment was nearly freezing by the time we got it back. My roommate and I nearly had to start cuddling for warmth – of course, he’s gone home already, so this time I might just grab a blanket and sleep in the library.”

“Hey,” Harry says slowly, a tentative idea forming in his head. “You could stay with me, if you want. Tonight, I mean. My roommate – Liam - he has this little air mattress for when his girlfriend or something stays over. It's one of those thin little ones, but it's alright, I think?”

Louis thinks for a moment. “Slumber party?” His voice carries a slight mocking lilt, but when Harry looks up at his face, it's all gentle gratefulness. “I wouldn't want to take your roommate's bed, though,” he amends. “I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate a weird, smelly stranger sleeping on it.”

“He wouldn't mind, I promise,” Harry assures him. “You shouldn't have to sleep in some dark, freezing house when you can just stay over mine. And you’re not a _stranger_ ; I invited you, and we can keep each other company and stuff.” Louis also smells decidedly good, but Harry doesn’t remark on that. Instead he says, “here, I'll text him and ask.”

Harry taps out the text to Liam, and his phone buzzes a moment later.

_yeah of course_ , is Liam's response.

Followed by, _as long as u dont fuck on it,_ followed by an evil emoji face.

Harry chokes on nothing and fervently hopes the flush on his face will just be attributed to the cold.

“What'd he say?” Louis is watching him inquisitively.

“He says it's fine,” Harry stammers.

Louis narrows his eyes. “Can I see, then?” he makes to grab the phone, but Harry pulls it away.

“He says it's fine,” he repeats firmly, because Louis can _not_ see that text. He doesn't even know if Louis is _gay._ Well, he kind of suspects - Louis kind of acts like it, and he _is_ a drama student - but then, those could just be dumb stereotypes mixed with some wishful thinking.

Louis eyes him skeptically before shrugging and turning away. Then he suddenly squints in the distance out over the lake. “Whoa, look – is that a _yeti_?” he points, and Harry follows the line of his finger, and then Louis snatches the cell phone out of his hand and immediately bursts into laughter. “A yeti, Harry, _really_?” Harry tries to grab his phone back, but Louis is already looking down at it. Then his eyes widen a bit, and he bursts into another bout of cackling.

Harry grabs back the phone, now loose in Louis' grasp, his cheeks burning. When he dares to look up, Louis is still chuckling to himself.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, “Just Liam being – Liam. Uh. It’s kinda an inside joke, is all,” he tries. Louis just shakes his head with that same grin, as his expression grows more thoughtful.

“I am a bit offended, though,” he says, and Harry’s chest tightens with fear. But after a beat Louis continues: “because why on earth would I fuck a guy on an air mattress when there's a perfectly good _bed_ right next to it?”

Harry blinks and steadily pushes away the thoughts _that_ could evoke in his head. “It's a dorm bed, though,” he says instead, thoughtfully, “so maybe an air mattress is actually preferable.” Louis laughs at that.

“Good point, good point.”

“So you'll come?” Harry persists. “Er, I mean, stay over? You don't have to, if you don't want -”

Louis cuts him off with a nudge. “Hey, I do want to. Sounds fun - if you're sure you’re okay with it.”

***                          

Louis doesn't need a boyfriend right now.

Or a crush, he amends to himself; or whatever Harry definitely _isn't,_ because he just met him a day ago, and that would be weird. And also, he doesn’t need a boyfriend right now.

He's too _busy_ for that. Not as busy as last semester, maybe, but if he’s lucky he’ll be working in some capacity on the Spring show this year, and that’s on top of his coursework and the thesis he has to start if he’s planning to graduate on time. He doesn't need to drag another person through that, or to drag himself through another relationship with a bright-eyed younger guy who leaves when he can't handle him at his most manic.

When he accepted Harry's offer to stay over, it was as a _friend_ , because Harry's roommate said something about him being lonely. If anything, it’s also for _survival_ , because he'd rather not freeze when the storm inevitably knocks out the power. It’s nothing more; not a date or a means to woo a crush or even a start to a friend-with-benefits thing, though somehow he suspects that Harry wouldn't be interested in that anyways.

Harry is just a _friend_. A fast friend, maybe, but a friend. They're going to spend a chill night together as friends, and part to go home as friends, and maybe, if he's lucky they'll keep talking and stay friends.

It’s nothing, else, really.

So it's a little disconcerting when, hours later, Louis is in Harry's dorm and isn't wearing pants.

Granted, it's for a less interesting reason than those lecherous parts of his brain would have hoped. They're settling in for the night with a microwave-dinner and another holiday movie on Harry's laptop, and Harry had insisted that he borrow a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants for the night. So Louis is changing – and decidedly _not_ snooping – in the walk-in closet while Harry is out making them Easy Mac in the kitchen.

He's not snooping, but he can't help if if he has eyes. One side of the closet, he notices, is obviously Harry's; it's all flowing scarves, playfully patterned button-ups and long coats. Behind them is a shape, and Louis is not-quite-accidentally nudging the clothing aside to see if that shape is, in fact, what he thinks. It is: a guitar case.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure, hold on,” Louis quickly tugs on the pants just as Harry comes in balancing the two little bowls.

“Do you play?” He blurts out, motioning to the guitar case he’s uncovered in the closet.

“A little,” Harry says, a little bashfully. Why is he always so bashful? And more concerning, why does Louis find it so endearing? “One of Liam's friends plays, and he's taught me a bit, I guess. I mean, he's brilliant, actually - and Liam's this amazing singer, been taking lessons for years, too.”

“So are you guys gonna make a nice three-piece band, become rich and famous?”

Harry looks shifty. Louis raises an eyebrow in question.

“I mean,” Harry shrugs. “We have, kind of, actually. Just since we met, a few months ago – but we've played together, you know, gigs at bars and stuff.  They both know people.” Harry shrugs again. “But I sing, mostly.”

“You know, I can see that,” Louis says with a grin. “You do have this like, rough, rock-star kind of voice.” Which is completely true, but the comment sends a blush of pink rising up Harry’s cheeks. “What kinda stuff do you play?”

“Uh, yeah. Some rock covers, classic rock - acoustic, obviously. And some stuff Liam writes, too.”

“Can you sing something now?” Louis tries his best begging face, but Harry just looks down with a little nervous grin and shakes his head.

“The food's gonna get cold,” he says instead, and turns away before Louis' pout can work its magic on him. Louis decides not to push any further for now, though he tucks this idea in his mind for another time. “Let’s start your movie.”

They’d decided earlier that they should spend the evening with a holiday movie marathon. They’d easily agreed on the first one - the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Then, Harry had insisted on _Love Actually,_ which – _really?_

“It's so cheesy, though,” Louis had complained.

“Yeah, but it's a movie,” Harry’d argued. “It shows you, like, love comes in all kinds of forms, you know?”

“Fine. But if I agree to watch that, you have to watch _my_ choice next. Deal?” And so they had; Louis had done a commendable job refraining from making fun of it out loud _that_ much, even as Harry sniffled a bit through the ending.

But now, sitting up against the wall at the foot of Harry's bed, bowls of macaroni in hands, Louis opens up his choice, turning the laptop toward Harry dramatically.

“It's called _Holiday in Handcuffs,_ ” he says, and Harry leans over beside him.

“Wait, _what?_ ”

“No, it's nothing _kinky_ ,” Louis says with a raised eyebrow just to see Harry blush. It works.

“But it's the next best thing. _Listen._ So it's Melissa Joan Hart, right, and her boyfriend dumps her right before Christmas, but her parents were expecting her to bring home this boyfriend she’s been telling them about for their big family Christmas weekend in their cabin. So she decides to _kidnap_ this random guy she's never met – played by Mario Lopez - and _force_ him to be her fake boyfriend for the trip!”

Harry looks appropriately horrified and incredulous. “But - how can she _force_ him?”

“She has a gun,” Louis says, matter-of-factly.

“But, like, that's so - unethical?” Harry stammers. “And messed up?”

“Yes, yes; this is all very true,” Louis grins. “But it's also a Christmas _classic._ Plus, no spoilers, but it's all _very_ romantic.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Since I know that's the kind of thing you like. They might, possibly, fall in love. _Obviously._ ”

“But that's not love! Isn't that – what's it called, Stockholm Syndrome?”

“Oh, c'mon. True love comes in all sorts of forms,” Louis parrots. “Besides, it's just a movie.”

“Louis.” The look he gives him is equal parts scandalized and amused.

“ _Harry.”_

“ _Louis -”_

“Plus,” Louis interrupts, “it's Mario Lopez. His dimples almost rival yours,” he pokes Harry's face to emphasize the point, and Harry half-heartedly swats him away, dimples deepening despite himself.

Of course, they do start watching the movie. Louis’ eyes flit between the screen and Harry's face, watching as Harry feigns horror at first. But eventually, he joins in laughing at the ridiculousness of it all the same, shaking his head when Louis quotes his favorite lines along with the movie.

Somehow, between their laughter and Louis' nudging him to pay attention at all the best parts, the inches of space in between their bodies sort of disappear, their arms and knees and legs brushing up against each other. Neither of them comments on it; Louis wonders if Harry is just too enraptured in the movie to notice, or if he, like Louis, is remaining carefully frozen even through snorts of laughter to not break the moment. Louis maybe _should_ move away, but he also doesn't want to shift and disrupt the pivotal scenes at the end of the movie, so for Harry's sake, he doesn't.

It's finally broken when it ends, Harry stretching out his legs and hopping up to get them bottles of water and returning to sit a gap away from him again. Louis sighs.

But they do resume giggling over the computer, Harry shaking his head incredulously. “That's so messed up – what if it was a movie about a guy kidnapping a girl and them falling in love?”

“ _Beauty and the Beast_ ,” Louis counters, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“That's different. This is – well, I guess it's _similar._ But she actually threatened to kill him!”

“I don't disagree with you,” Louis puts his hands up. “But you also have to agree with me that it's a wonderful film. Five stars, should have won an Academy Award.” Harry giggles. “Mario Lopez's dimples should have gotten their own Oscar, at least.” Harry rolls his eyes with another giggle, and they bump elbows.

“Are you sure you’re actually studying acting?”

They sit together over the laptop for a while longer, first looking at other bad holiday movies, talking about their other favorites and least-favorites, comparing the shows they've binge-watched the worst. They listen to the wind howling outside, bouts of icy snow pelting the window with each gust. Louis shivers and they pull the quilt over them, and for a moment they're touching legs underneath it, until a particularly loud gust sounds, and Harry jerks his leg away. Louis carefully lets it stay that way.

Eventually, Harry starts yawning too much, and they finally drag out the air mattress and some blankets for Louis to sleep on. They talk with the lights out for a little longer over the noise of the storm. “Are you _trying_ to ruin Christmas?” Harry keeps asking, quoting the film, and they both crack up.

All in all, Louis thinks when it finally dies down for long enough that Harry drifts to sleep, this is turning out okay. His face is actually aching from smiling and laughing so much, and he's in a marginally heated room with a nice new _friend_. It's still kind of surreal that he's spent the whole day with Harry, but it somehow just feels completely natural. He still hasn't even gotten Harry's number or anything, which he needs to rectify before they leave, but at least it definitely won't seem weird when he asks.

He turns over on to his side and tries to go to sleep, listening to the soft sound of Harry's even breathing beside him. But he can't. It's like the more he lies here and thinks about it, the more wired he feels. It doesn't help when he realizes he's half-hard, probably from spending the last four hours pressed against Harry's side on a bed and the last half hour thinking about it. And, well, the fact that he's clad in Harry's soft, oversized black t-shirt and his warm sweatpants is kind of a turn-on.

Or definitely a turn-on. Which, he mentally chastises himself, is _not_ okay. They're friends, right? And Harry's a _freshman,_ and, while two years isn't actually that much of a difference, Louis doubts that he’d interested in him like that.

Even if, in some twisted universe, Harry _was_ interested, it's not like he could do anything about it now. He's known the boy for barely more than 24 hours, and he was kind enough to invite him to stay in his home. Louis's a guest, and he would have no right to put Harry in an uncomfortable position like that.

_Position_ , his mind repeats back to him, and he rolls his eyes and tries to think about something else. What is he, 16 years old? Harry is so lovely, though. So pretty, and only a few feet away from him, snuffling in his sleep before letting out a little humming noise that could almost sound like a moan.

Well. There's no harm in helping himself get to sleep faster, right? But he can’t exactly do it in Harry's sweatpants, in a bed on the floor next to him.

So finally he relents, quietly pads to the bathroom. He closes his eyes and pulls himself off embarrassingly quickly, which has nothing to do with the visions of Harry's bare chest as he shamelessly took of his shirt to change into a t-shirt, or of the way his pink lips wrapped around the plastic spoon during their dinner tonight, or of that small moan that escaped when he took the first sip of hot chocolate.

He washes his hands and face and resolutely refuses to look at himself in the mirror, walks back as quietly as he can and wills himself to finally sleep.

***            

A baby bird is shrieking on the floor beside Harry's bed. He doesn't know how or when it got there, but it’s crying and alone and probably freezing, and he _has_ to save it. Only, his bed seems impossibly high off the ground, and his arms suddenly seem far too short, and no matter how far he reaches, he just _can't_ get to the poor crying thing.

Wait. No. It's _Louis_ , he remembers, on the floor by his bed. Why is Louis shrieking like that? Oh god, is he hurt? Did he hurt himself somehow? After Harry practically forced him to stay here last night, he'd gone and let him get hurt and he can't even help?

Harry startles awake just as Louis – the _actual_ Louis – groans and clatters his hand against his cell phone.

Oh – that must be his ringtone, then. Oops.

“Hello?” Louis' voice in the morning is gruffer and lower, in a way that Harry finds completely endearing and a little hot, even as he more impatiently repeats himself. “Hello  – ”

Even muffled through the phone, Harry can hear the cacophony of squeals on the other end; it sounds like a chorus of young girls' voices. Harry peeks down at Louis, the early morning light illuminating his face in soft gray-blue. He’s sitting up now, knees drawn against his chest, the partially-deflated air mattress sagging beneath him. He’s squinting and holding the phone a few inches away from his ear, but the huge smile is threatening to split his face.

The sounds finally come into focus, and Harry realizes they're singing:

“ _Happy birthday to Lou-ieeeee. Happy birthday to youuuuu!”_

“Thank you, thank you, girls.” He laughs, eyes crinkling in obvious adoration. “Beautiful singing, all of you.” Harry can't hear the rest of the conversations, but it sounds like a lot of giggling and squealing, especially when Louis starts making joking threats about Santa Claus coming tomorrow.

“I talked to him,” he says seriously, “and I told him to wait until I'm home to deliver the presents. So don't go expecting to have Christmas morning tomorrow!” The response is a mix of protests and laughter, and Louis throws his head back in a laugh. His eyes catch Harry’s  – Harry hasn’t stopped watching him this whole time, he realizes  – and he throws him a sheepish but wan grin.

Eventually it sounds like Louis gets his oldest sisters, his stepdad, and finally his mom, on the phone. He promises that the girls' presents that he shipped should arrive today – he checked online – and reminds them that he'll be home on the 26th.

When he finally hangs up, he looks at the the screen of his phone and then back up at Harry, grimacing apologetically.

“Sorry it’s so early – there's a time difference, and the youngest ones still wake up early.”

Only then does Harry turn to look at the time on his own alarm clock and notice that it’s blank. The power must have gone out in the storm, then - that explains why it’s getting so cold in the room.

But first, he has another, more important matter to address right now.

“You didn't tell me it was your birthday.”

Louis shrugs. “You didn't ask.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I would've gotten you something, or – or planned something.” He glances at out the window, which looks kind of like a blue-gray sheet of snow. “Something that doesn't involve leaving the dorm,” he amends.

“Well, you let me stay here so I didn't freeze my ass off, so that's more than enough.” But he betrays his words, letting out a yawn that ends in a chattering of teeth, and wrapping his arms tighter around his knees.

“Well, actually, I didn't even do that,” Harry points out. “'s why it's so cold  – I think the power's out.” Louis peers out the window and then tugs his blanket back on himself. He shrugs, but Harry rushes on. “I'm really sorry it's so cold, I didn't think  – ”

“Hey, 's not that cold; it's just because I kicked off my blanket. And I bet they'll fix the power in like an hour, since you're on campus and all.” He lies back down, sinking back into the mattress.

“And that's deflating - I can get the air pump to inflate it more, if you want.” Harry suddenly feels overwhelmed with guilt. “And let me get another blanket -”

Louis waves. “No, Harry, relax; it's okay, I promise.”

And maybe Harry can blame it on his being half-asleep or just really cold, but he only hesitates a little before suggesting: “You can come into my bed, if you want. For warmth, I mean,” he adds quickly. “I'm cold too. And there's enough room. Or, yeah, another blanket. Or we don't even have to sleep more if you're not tired - “

“Hey,” Louis says, blue eyes impossibly soft. “That would be good. Keep both of us warm until the heat comes back. And,” he adds with a grin, “I'm never one to reject birthday cuddles.”

Harry scoots over on his side, back pressed against the wall, as Louis stands up, blanket still wrapped around him, and climbs in next to him.

“Don't fall off the edge,” Harry warns, and Louis scoots back a little closer, nearly touching him.

They're not exactly spooning, Harry reasons - Louis' legs are curled a bit, but they're not actually touching. They're just sharing warmth, really.

It makes Harry feel weird, but it also helps quell his guilt; Louis will be comfortable, at least. He tries not to think too much about the fact that they're in the same bed as he wills himself to remain still and silent until Louis’ breaths even out, and then he somehow falls asleep, too.

When he wakes up, it's fully bright out, the room flooded with white morning light. From the corner of his eye he sees the red numbers blinking on his alarm clock: the power is back, then, too. He tries to slink out from the quilt and off the bed without disturbing the sleeping lump of Louis, but he stirs.

“Hey,” he says blearily, and then he sits up. “It's warmer, now. See, I told you the electricity would come back.”

“Yeah,” he tries to refrain from smiling as Louis rubs his eyes adorably. He fails. “Morning - sorry for waking you.”

It's still chilly in the room, so he opts to go out to the kitchen to make them some warm oatmeal. He has a sudden idea as he goes to get the second bowl out of the microwave; he rummages through one of the drawers until he finds what he's looking for.

The smile on Louis' face is worth it, when Harry hands him the bowl and he sees the single green-striped candle propped into the oatmeal, though slowly sinking sideways into the goopy substance.  

They chatter over breakfast, and when they're done with the oatmeal, Harry opts to get them some bananas.

“Bananas are good,” he reasons when Louis gives him a weird look. “And I really have to eat these before the break. Unless I wanna come home to rotten bananas.”

But Louis still waggles his eyebrows mock-seductively as Harry takes the first bite, and he almost spits it out laughing. Louis casually proceeds to take a dainty bite of his own. Fine, then; if Louis' going to start this, then he can be bold, too. He peels it farther and makes a real effort, wrapping his mouth around the banana, deep, before finally taking the big bite. Louis appears to choke on his own food; he isn't laughing now.

“Enjoying breakfast?” Harry smiles sweetly.

Louis clears his throat and recovers with a haughty, “I mean, it's not my mom's birthday breakfast, but it'll do.”

“And what’s that?”

Louis launches into the story of the birthday waffles. Every year on each of their birthdays, he says, his mom makes them special waffles, with any and all toppings they could want – frosting, maple syrup, sprinkles, sugar cubes. Apparently it was the compromise when 6-year-old Louis demanded cake for breakfast, and the tradition stuck in the family.

“You know, we have a waffle maker in the kitchen,” Harry muses. Maybe he could make waffles for breakfast tomorrow. Would that be too much? It can be a Christmas breakfast for both of them, and something of a birthday gift, too, before he has to leave in the afternoon. Even though Louis probably doesn't want to stay over tonight – it's not like he'll have breakfast plans, right? He's said as much. Plus, he remembers, that's a convenient reason to exchange numbers so he can call to let him in tomorrow morning.

He's about to mention it, but he finds Louis' eyes glued to a spot in the closet.

“Will you play something for me now?” he asks, and Harry follows his eyes to the guitar case.

“I'm really not very good.” Which is true – he'd only met Liam's friend, Niall, a few months ago, and he's only sat down to teach Harry on a few occasions since then.

Louis arches an eyebrow. “It's my birthday.” Which is a fair point, and the pouty look that Louis starts giving him, jutting his lower lip, really doesn't help the matter.

So Harry gives in and gets the guitar and sits beside Louis on the corner of the bed. He starts a simple rendition of happy birthday - “You have to sing, too!” Louis demands – and he sings along, a little nervously, even though no one ever cares what that song sounds like. When he's done, Louis keeps waiting expectantly, so he goes on.

“Here, this is something Liam's been working on,” he starts, carefully strumming each chord, a still little self-conscious even though he's sung this one in front of much bigger crowds before.

“Nobody loves you baby, the way I do,” he croons in conclusion and lets the last chord drift away before looking up.

Louis says nothing for a moment as Harry shrugs and lays the guitar down against the bed, turns cross-legged to wait for Louis' reaction.

“You're really good,” Louis says finally, with a strange but genuine smile. “You have a great voice – which, I mean, I expected,” Harry shakes his head, laughs at Louis' obvious overcompensatory niceness. “What are you – I'm serious,” he says sternly and pokes Harry in the chest. “I would know, as a theater major and all that. I’ve seen my share of good  – and bad  – musical performances. ”

When Harry doesn't reply, Louis pokes him again. harder, this time in the shoulder, the nudge twisting him around to face him. “I'm serious – I bet your act is really good. You have to tell me when you play. Can I come to one of your shows sometime?”

“Only if I get to come to your next opening night,” Harry shoots back before realizing, mildly, that this is becoming sort of intimate. It sends a little rush through him to realize that they're talking about spending – well, not the _rest of their lives_ together, or anything - but the future. Talking about their future together.

“Deal,” Louis says, and holds out his right hand for Harry to take.

They grip each other's hands for a moment, and maybe it's his imagination that Louis is pulling him, just slightly closer to him on the bed. And, even as he loosely lets go, that he suddenly looks strangely intense. Like he's trying to see into his mind, or something, but like he also might be thinking to himself, his eyebrows quirking almost imperceptibly.

It feels like slow motion. Louis is so pretty, the light from the window hitting the sharp angle of his cheeks, his long eyelashes casting shadows below. And he's moving towards him, just slightly, bit by bit, barely an inch away, and Harry's heart beating harder and harder as he realizes what he thinks might be happening, what he really _wants_ to happen  –

_Screech. Screech. Screech._

It's Louis' phone ringing, again, and they both jolt. Harry sees a flash of something – annoyance, maybe? - cross his face, and his eyes flit to look at the little screen, head barely moving. But then his brow furrows, and with an a slight sigh, he picks it up to answer.

“Hello - Mom? Yeah, yes -” _Pause. “_ What? You - really?” He suddenly jumps up from the bed and starts pacing in circles, running a hand through his hair. “Really? That's in like - two hours! But - okay, yeah, I think I can, yes - I think so! Okay, I will! That's - amazing, thank you! I'll be – yes, yes, you can text me. I'll call you when I'm there. Love you!”

He pulls away his phone and stops pacing for a moment, looks around a little frantically.

“What's up?” Harry inquires.

“That was my mom - she changed my flight!” His eyes are wide, and he grabs his jeans from on top of his bag and runs to the closet.

“What - when?”

Harry can hear the rustling of clothing. “She called the airline and I guess someone had cancelled last-minute because there was one seat for the next flight, _today,_ so I can  – so I'm going to be home for Christmas! But it's at 2, and that's like, I might not even _make it_  –” he emerges dressed and hopping on one foot as he ties his shoe in the air. “So I have to go get packing, get to the airport, like now!”

He finally stops moving for a moment, bag hanging from one arm, Harry's shirt and sweatpants slung over the other. “Hey, thanks for these.” He says sincerely. “And for letting me stay here, really.” Harry just stands there dumbly, can hardly register what is going on as Louis hands him the clothes. Finally he pulls himself together enough to say something like “no problem,” and to pull Louis into a hug, light and comfortable for just a moment. Then Louis' phone buzzes, and he detaches to look down.

“Shit,” he looks at Harry. “I have to go – I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“You're  –”

“I gotta go!” The door slams behind him.

And then he's gone.

***               

Louis had gotten to the airport quickly enough. Granted, he's hardly had time to breathe, between texting his mom to get the flight information, throwing everything he could think of into his luggage, and, on the cab ride there, scrambling to find his passport that he'd shoved somewhere into said luggage. Somehow he'd gotten through the extra-long holiday security line fast enough that when he arrives, panting, to the crowded gate, they're only just announcing the first-class boarding.

He stops to catch his breath and checks his boarding pass; he won't be getting on until one of the last groups. He can spare the time to buy an overpriced bottle of water, then. He heads for the kiosk at the middle of the terminal and grabs the water and some kind of decent-looking candy bar.

He waits in the line to pay, eyes drifting along the display of crappy last-minute souvenirs. There's a shelf holding a row of cheap snowman figurines, the last of which is this sad-looking snowman standing beside a palm tree, wearing one of those ridiculous tropical fruit hats, bananas and all. The bizarre sight makes him smile, and he thinks of Harry.

_Harry,_ he sighs. At some point between last night and this morning, he'd sort of given up hope on his goal of seeing Harry as nothing more than a friend. Maybe it was when he got Harry to sing for him this morning, because god, his _voice._ He expected him to be good, anyway – Louis really has developed a keen ear for these things over his years in musical theater – but somehow it was even better than he expected, earnest and smooth and raspy and, well, _sexy._

Or maybe it was when he'd practically deepthroated that banana this morning, which Louis was not in any way prepared for. Or when he'd batted those long eyelashes and told him he wanted to come see his show next semester.

Or when he had almost, _almost_ kissed him.

Louis loves his mom  – he really does, and he's thrilled to be home with his family in time for Christmas  – but that phone call really did kind of ruin their moment. It had seemed surreal at the time, but in retrospect he realize that the kiss certainly would have happened if they'd had only a few seconds more. Instead, he’d just run out the door with hardly any time for a goodbye, much less a perfectly timed, slow, languid kiss like the one he was expecting, the one Harry was expecting.

And Harry was, Louis realizes suddenly, expecting it. How could he not, with the way he was leaning into it, eyes fluttering shut? Guilt twists in his stomach as he thinks that Harry – sweet, sincere Harry - might be actually disappointed. Or worse, disappointed in _him._ Even if he had to, Louis did leave far too quickly. He should probably apologize, wish Harry a good break, let him know that he hasn't forgotten about him, before the flight leaves. Maybe they can even make plans for when they get back, he thinks.

He digs his phone out of his pocket and snaps a picture of the strange tropical-banana-snowman for good measure. He opens it up in a text message, starts typing the contact “Harry.”

The name doesn't come up, and he's filled with confusion for a moment as he searches his brain, wondering how he’d saved the contact.

Then, the confusion is replaced, slowly and then all at once, by a terrible, oozing wave of chills. A blanket of dread settles in the pit of his stomach when he realizes it. He never got Harry's number.

“Sir? Is that all?” The cashier looks thoroughly bored and mildly annoyed.

“Yeah.” His entire body feels numb as he reaches in his pocket and hands over his credit card.

He'd wanted to get Harry's number - or, you know, _some_ kind of contact information. Of course he had. It's just that he didn't ever even think of it. Why would he, when he’d felt - still feels - like he's known Harry for days or weeks or months, for his whole life? With the way they've practically been living out of each other's pockets for the past day, the need just didn't cross his mind. He was going to make sure they'd exchanged numbers by the time he left; of course he was, and he would have remembered, if only - but the fact is, he _didn't_.

He feels like his stomach is going to crawl out his throat. What does Harry think? The look on his face as Louis turned to run out the door, eyes wide with confusion like a baby deer in the headlights of a car, suddenly takes on a whole new meaning. At best, he must think Louis just doesn't care; he must feel utterly let down.

But then, maybe Harry doesn't care, either. Maybe he's just an exceptionally nice kid, or he just wanted to do a holiday good deed, and he'll be fine – would prefer, even - never seeing Louis again. The thought sends another wrench of pain through his body.

Louis owed him more than this, more than leaving with hardly a goodbye. A glimmer of an idea rises in his mind: maybe he can find him on Facebook, or something. But then he realizes that he doesn't even know his last name. How does he not know his last name? And, if Harry’s tried, he probably couldn't find Louis even if he _did_ know his full name – Louis had had to change his privacy settings for the sake of company policy when started working at the theater camp.

He can't do anything. All he knows now is where Harry lives, and he can't exactly just show up at the end of winter break, as if nothing ever happened, waiting outside the dorm door until he comes out.

“Last call for gate A12, all groups, for Philadelphia International Airport,” the speaker blares above them.

He's almost missed boarding - which might actually be preferable, given his situation. He fantasizes briefly about turning back, running down the concourse like in some kind of cheesy romance movie that Harry would probably love. Getting a cab home and... what? Waiting in the cold outside Harry's dorm until he comes out? Not to mention, he already told his family he was at the gate waiting to board. He can't fuck things up with them, too. He despondently checks in at the desk and heads into the winding jetway to the waiting plane that will take him far, far away.

***

“Harry made them,” Gemma gushes, ruffling her little brother's hair as she slides past him to the living room, where a collection of their relatives hover over the tray of cookies on the dessert table. “Aren't they the best?”

Harry had made the cookies after Louis left: a couple of batches yesterday afternoon and evening, and another this morning. It's kind of pathetic, he realizes, spending Christmas morning alone making cookies for nobody, but he needed _something_ to do.

After Louis had left, Harry had just felt numb. It came in waves: numb, and naïve, and _stupid_ , because he'd had the whole day planned out, like some kind of delusional fantasy. Even before the almost-kiss – if that’s what it even was. He was going to let Louis go back to his place, if he wanted. He'd invite him to spend another night, obviously, but even if he didn't want to, he was going to ask him to come over for a Christmas breakfast tomorrow. It's not like he'd have any other plans. And he was going to spend the rest of the day shopping for the ingredients so he could surprise him with waffles, and maybe even  cookies so he could send Louis home with Christmas cookies, and maybe they could even decorate them together, and – what the hell is wrong with him? What was he even _thinking?_

He understands that Louis was excited to go home, and he wouldn't even feel more than a little disappointed if he had any way to contact him. But he doesn’t. Louis hadn't bothered to even get his number before he practically leapt out the door; and Harry, he knows, is just as guilty, which makes him feel even worse. Even his foray into Facebook stalking yesterday had yielded nothing; he can't even remember his last name _,_ and he’d looked at every Louis that he could find, until he’d finally felt too disgusted with himself to go on.

So he'd taken his English grandmother's shortbread recipe and an entire box of butter, and he’d stacked four tupperware containers full of cookies to bring home. At least, he reasoned, _someone_ would be happy for it.

He's not _not_ happy, all the time. He loves seeing his mom, whom he hasn't seen since he moved in the summer; his sister, who's been in grad school in Seattle and whom he hasn't seen in even longer; his aunts and uncle he hasn't seen since last Christmas or the one before. And the little cousins are here – 3 of them, from Florida, squealing with delight every time they remember there's _snow_ outside and dragging their Uncle Harry and Aunt Gemma out to play with them. Even the baby scrunches his nose and gurgles adorably when he takes him outside and sprinkles snow on his little nose. And the two girls, 5 and 7 years old, scream in laughter as they stomp and crunch footprints in the snowy ground. They're precious, really, and for a moment it makes him forget that any adult problems exist in the world.

Until his mind drifts to that little girl they'd met while making the snowman, which reminds him of Louis.

He tries to appreciate dinner, at least, with his family, so much good food, the sharing of stories and laughs. When the girls go to drag him back out into the yard again after dinner, he remembers to present them with the snowball throwers. They spend about 30 seconds scooping up the snow and delightedly marvelling at the perfect roundness of the snowballs before discovering their _other_ real purpose and proceeding to mercilessly pelt everything – each other, the house, Gemma, Harry – with them.

And of course, it reminds him of Louis.

Eventually they find a patch in the far side of the yard, where they haven't yet messed up layer of snow, and they plop down into the ground beside each other to make snow angels. They got too close, though, bickering when their hands end up touching, and it ends up looking like one giant set of snow angel conjoined twins. It reminds him of Louis.

It's pathetic.

He can't stop thinking about _Louis._ Louis, wrapped in scarf and beanie, knelt down whispering to that little girl, eyes sparkling with laughter. Louis, guffawing at that ridiculous movie while Harry shakes his head and tries to maintain both his dignity and the way their shoulders are brushing together. Louis, curled warm beside him when he woke up in the morning, the curve of his back rising and falling with slow breaths. Louis, sitting close to him on the bed, leaning toward him – or was it just his imagination? – in an almost-kiss. Louis holding his hug for just a moment before disappearing out the door, never to be seen or heard from again.

It's almost midnight by the time everyone finally leaves and he retreats back to his bedroom, exhausted.  He lies on his stomach on his bed and tries to think of something happy, or at least to think of _nothing_ so he might fall asleep, but it's futile. He gazes out the window, colorful lights on the neighbors' roofs twinkling against the night sky. Christmas lights really shouldn't make him feel such resounding melancholy, but they do.

He sits up with a sigh and remembers that he does have something to do. Liam texted him earlier, like the concerned parent they always tease him about being, to ask if he'd made it home, and how everything is going. He taps out a response, and Liam must pick up something in his tone – of _course_ he does – because soon enough he's calling Harry and asking what's up, and Harry is trying to keep his voice from quivering as he explains.

“And then he was about to leave, and I didn't - well, I hugged him goodbye, and I was going to say something but then his phone went off and he kind of ran out.”

Harry can imagine Liam's unimpressed reaction even over the phone. “Well, –” he starts, but Harry cuts him off.

“Maybe he just forgot, though. I mean, so did I. I get it. He was really excited when his mom called, and he had to go catch the plane, like, really soon, like in an hour or something.” As soon as the words come out of his mouth, he realizes he kind of hates himself for defending Louis like that. He's repeated those same hollow words to himself over and over ever since Louis ran out the door, and they haven't changed anything. “So maybe he just forgot,” he finishes feebly.

“Or maybe he's just an asshole.” Liam lays the words out gently, though, as if he only cares to set out the options for Harry to see.

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly, and the silence stretches between them for a moment.

Harry hugs his knees to his body. “I can't stop thinking about him,” he confesses then, the non sequitur almost a whisper.

“Oh, Harry,” Liam sighs, and Harry really wishes they were together, because he could really use one of Liam's hugs. “Have you tried looking for him online?”

“Yeah, of course I have. But I don't even know his last name – it started with a T, something, but I don't remember. I mean, I tried Facebook, googled - but it's been pretty useless.” His voice cracks embarrassingly on the last word.

“Hey, Harry.” His pitch turns soft and soothing. “Listen, when we get back, I can help you look for him, okay? We can ask around. And, you know – I'm going to Niall's tomorrow to hang out before he leaves for Philly, and I can ask him – his boyfriend's in the arts school, and I think he knows some of the theater people, so maybe he'd know something. Or – Louis knows where we live, yeah? Maybe he'll come to you. It'll be okay.”

“And what if he doesn't even _want_ to see me?” Harry says miserably, just because he can. “What if he was just using me for his entertainment and a warmer place to sleep?”

“Then I'll find him myself,” Liam says firmly, “and tell him he's an asshole, for doing that to my best friend. And he's – I saw him, he's sorta scrawny. I could take him.”

It's only meant as a joke, obviously, but Harry nevertheless feels a hot surge of protectiveness burning in his throat.

“I'm kidding,” Liam says knowingly when Harry hasn't responded. “But I will help you find him, though, okay? We'll find him.”

“Thanks,” Harry sniffs.

“Just try not to think about it, alright?”

Liam reminds Harry that he'll see him soon - he's driving over to Liam's in a few days for New Year’s – and that it’s going to be an epic party, and he’ll love it. At least he can look forward to that, even if it's not nearly soon enough. They finally say goodbye, and Harry curls back up on the head of his bed and wills himself into a fitful sleep haunted by blue eyes and big smiles.

***   

“I'm missing out on the New Year’s party I always throw with my best friend, so we'd better do _something_ ,” Zayn's boyfriend mock-threatens, interrupting the hockey game they've been watching on Zayn’s TV. He comes up around the sofa to hand them two of the three bottles of beer he was holding, then plops down to squeeze himself to sit in between them, turning briefly to plant a loud kiss on Zayn's cheek. Zayn grins dopily.

Louis has met Niall a few times since he and Zayn started officially dating last September. The blond bundle of happy energy is absolutely perfect for the often quiet, sometimes brooding Zayn; they complement each other perfectly. He knows this. But seeing them together at this particular time only makes Louis feels even worse about what he lost.

Or, he reminds himself, what he _maybe_ lost; he doesn't even know if he had anything to begin with. He could have misinterpreted everything from the start. Harry could be glad to get rid of him for good, for all he knows.

“Yeah, fine,” Louis answers half-heartedly as he remembers he's supposed to respond. “You guys can come to mine, if you want. Lottie’s having some friends over, I think; maybe we can have a bonfire or something. Get some fireworks, impress the children.”

“What, you don't wanna plan a massive party last-minute like you always do? What'd you do with the real Louis?” Zayn teases, but Louis doesn't miss his tinge of concern, or suspicion, or something else that Louis probably deserves, because honestly, he feels like shit.

He'd felt like shit even over Christmas, even with his family, and _especially_ alone, when he’d had nothing to do but go crazy inside his own head. He can't even focus enough to seriously start deciding on an audition piece.

He’s tried to keep at the front of his mind the way his little sisters’ eyes lit up, the way they ran to him, when they first spotted him at the airport; the way they squealed with joy when they unwrapped the presents he’d gotten them, the oldest two jumping up to hug him knowingly; and of course, the looks on his mom and Dan’s faces as they watched on, faces glowing. But even with all of that, with the joy of the holiday and seeing his family again, his mind inevitably flickers to Harry.

He’d adeptly kept his stage-perfect smile plastered to his face for most of the time at home; he doesn’t deserve to drag anyone else into it. But a couple of nights ago, Zayn had called him during a bout of particularly pathetic despair, and he'd finally given in and briefly explained the situation. Met a guy while he was waiting for his new flight, spent the night at his place – but not like _that –_ and left without getting any contact information whatsoever. Zayn, for his part, had been sympathetic and sweet, had asserted with confidence that Louis could definitely find him again. Louis had snorted but left it at that.  

So he shrugs, averting his eyes to some point in the distance while Niall looks questioningly between them.

“You never found him,” Zayn says, a statement, not a question.

Louis sighs, doesn’t move his eyes. “No.”

“Who?” Niall pipes up.

Zayn raises an eyebrow to Louis in question, and Louis shrugs and rubs his hands against his eyes while Zayn turns to explain.

“He met this guy while he was stuck waiting for his flight, and they hung out all day, and then he stayed over his during the night of the storm, and Lou got all smitten with him. But then he – Louis – ended up switching to an earlier flight and ran off without even getting his number or anything.”

“Huh.” Niall cocks his head but says nothing more, busies himself doing something on his phone. Zayn gives him a weird look, and Niall returns some unreadable expression that seems to placate him. It's a little creepy how they can communicate without actually talking.

“You can find him again when we get back though, right?” Zayn turns back to Louis. “I'm sure he understands.”

“Yeah, sure,” he snorts. “'Course he'll still want this back two weeks later. I mean, who wouldn't want a guy that he rescues at the post office, invites into his home, makes breakfast for – and then I run out on him without even saying goodbye, maybe we could see each other again? Right.”

He flops his head down into his hands. When he peeks back up, Niall is whispering, showing something to Zayn on his phone. Zayn nudges him in the side, and he turns to Louis.

“So, this guy.” His leg starts to vibrate against the floor. “What was his name?”

“Harry. No last name because I'm an _idiot._ ”

“Harry,” Niall says slowly, strangely. “And does he happen to have curly hair?”

“Yeah...”

“Talks kinda slow?“ Louis nods. Niall's leg starts jiggling faster.

“Wait – why didn't I _think_ of this!?” he bursts out, suddenly. “Harry'd be _perfect_ for you. Harry, Harry's your” – Niall starts barking out in laughter?

“What?” Louis asks, thoroughly confused. “How do you know him?”

“Well his roommate, Liam, is like my best friend. From home, known him since we were little. He's the one I usually throw the New Year’s party with, actually. And Harry's – the three of us, we play music together sometimes. I'm teaching him guitar, and he has this really great voice – ”

“He really does,” Louis agrees - “Wait, how do you know it's the same Harry?”

Niall shoves his phone at Louis' face. It's a grainy picture, but clearly of Harry at a microphone on the stage of some little bar, Niall and Liam at mics a distance beside him. His shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest, his eyes are closed, neck arching forward into the words he must be singing. He looks so happy and pure and _free._ Louis groans.

“What, that's not him?”

“No” – Louis clears his throat. “It is.”

“Then what're you groaning about? You've found him! You've found each other, and it's time for the momentous reunion –” he waggles his eyebrows and Zayn elbows him in the side, snorting out a laugh despite himself. “Gimme your phone.”

“What can I even _say_ to him? Like, 'I’m sorry I just ran out on you a week ago without even getting your number, so I can't tell you in person and you probably think I'm an asshole, not to mention we’ve been apart for almost as long as I’ve even known you _existed_ , so you probably don’t even care, but I really like you – ’  hey!”

Niall snatches Louis' phone away and returns it a moment later with a new contact. Harry Styles. That _would_ be his name.

Louis blinks at the screen before turning it off.

They go back to watching the game in relative silence, Zayn throwing an arm around Niall's shoulder in a subtle attempt, Louis thinks, to keep him from Louis.

It's only moderately successful. Niall doesn't say anything else, but he keeps looking over at him, which Louis pointedly ignores. Finally, just as the game ends, he turns to Louis with narrowed eyes.

“Look,” he says, sounding, vaguely threatening. “I don't wanna get between you two or anything. But if you don't call him, I will. You need to sort it out, and - the way he's been talking about you - ”

“How's that?

“Look, just – you have to talk to him, okay?”

So Harry hates him, then. It’s not exactly surprising; he should, really.

Then again, Louis still owes him an apology, at least, before he tells him to stay out of his life.

“I will, okay? You don't – just let me.” Niall gives him a pointed look and Louis exasperatedly rises off the sofa and trudges into Zayn's cozy kitchen.

He leans against the wall by the refrigerator and stares at the number on the screen, thumb hovering over the call button.He doesn't _want_ to. He could wait, figure out something better to say or just give it a little more time. But then again, isn't spontaneity his thing? _Might as well._ He takes a breath and presses it with a wince, holds the phone up to his ear.

One ring. Two ring. Three rings. Four -

“Hello?” The voice is slow and syrupy and unmistakably _Harr_ y, like the first time he ever heard his voice at the post office. Suddenly his own voice feels caught in his throat. Sure, he thinks ironically, he has no problem singing, dancing, making a complete fool of himself on stage in front of hundreds of people. But this? He just can't do. He _can't._

He can hear the slow breathing on the other end of the phone as Harry repeats himself, a little louder. “Hello - ”

He ends the call and shoves him phone back into his pocket.

Niall and Zayn are eying him from around the corner, and he gulps and tries his best to look flippant as he emerges back into the living room. “There was no answer,” he lies with a careful shrug.

***

The days blur into each other, the snow turning to slush and then back into ice, hard and slippery when he steps outside the house – not that he does that very much. He spends the days helping around the house, trying to coax the cat to love him again, catching up with his mom and Gemma – though he catches up on their lives more than he talks about his. Sometimes he thinks they must suspect that something's wrong, but what would it help to talk about it? So he busies himself cooking dinners and afterwards and they spend the evenings watching trashy TV until his mom, then Gemma, rise sleepily to head off to bed.

And at those times, late at night alone in his room, he just doesn't know what to do. He tries to occupy himself reading books he finds, ones he probably was supposed to read in school but never actually paid attention to. And maybe they're actually good, but he keeps getting stuck in a loop reading the same line over and over again but not actually parsing it, because he can't focus.

Because Louis.

The phone call last night didn't help matters. He'd planned to just turn it off, assuming that the unknown number didn't intend to call him. But then he'd gotten this ridiculous hope that maybe, _somehow_ , Louis had found him. Which is pathetic, really, and it had just made him feel even worse when it turned out to be some kind of voiceless wrong number.

He's leaving for Liam's later today, so he finally lets Gemma drag him out to the mall for some early morning post-Christmas sale shopping. They're stopped on a bench to reorganize the bags – both of them have ended up with a few – when Gemma turns to him and pats the bench beside her.

“So, what's up with you, little brother? Haven't said much about your glamorous college life.”

“Nothing much,” he shrugs.

She continues. “Mom said she texted you on Christmas Eve, and you told her you were spending the day with a boy from your school?” She raises an eyebrow and gives him a light, teasing poke in the side. “He cute?”

Harry casts his eyes downward but swallows down the twinge of pain.

“No – uh, he was just some guy I met for, like, a minute. No one important.”

“Okay,” Gemma says slowly, clearly holding back from prodding further. “Well, what about other cute guys; I know there's plenty more – your roommate is pretty hot.”

“Gemma, ew! Liam's straight, and - “

“I know,” she rolls her eyes. “But I bet he has plenty of hot _friends_ , too. And come to think of it, I bet they'll be at his New Year’s party.” Harry snorts and rolls his eyes.

As it turns out, Harry finds shortly after he pulls up to Liam's driveway, she's actually not that far off. It's still early, but a group of people are already lounging around in the patio, and some have spread out blankets in the yard. There's a ton of food and drinks set up, and some boxes of firecrackers and sparklers and who knows what else stacked at the corner of what Harry assumes is a heated swimming pool.

“Hey!” Liam intercepts him with a warm greeting, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome – everyone, this is Harry!” he shouts to the group, and some of them return lazy waves. “There's Nick,” he points at a guy with tall hair, “and Ed, and Perrie and Jade and – there's really too many people to properly introduce you to, but you'll like 'em.”

Harry must not return the reaction Liam wants, because he nudges him in the side. “Why are you – oh. Louis, still? Well listen. You need to forget about him tonight. He's just a -” he stops, as if he was going to say something else, then shakes his head. “Forget about him,” he repeats. “No more thinking about him. Tonight you have _fun_ ” - he grabs a bottle of something dark-colored and pours a red cup to hand to Harry. “And forget he even exists, alright?”

Harry doesn't know how that will be possible, but he nods and takes the drink anyway.

***

Maybe it has something to do with the way that Niall has been eagerly shoving shots of vodka down his throat since the night began – who knows where he got all this alcohol – while Zayn amusedly lurks behind him. But it's like one minute he's galloping across the yard in the freezing cold throwing firecrackers against the ground, Lottie shaking her head while her friends gape at him; and the next, he's sitting by the warm bonfire with Niall and Zayn cuddling close, talking shit about their

New Year’s resolutions.

“Maybe I'll start drinking less,” Niall ponders.

“Yeah, and I'll stop sleeping so much,” Zayn agrees sarcastically, and they both giggle between themselves.

“Well, seriously then - I'm gonna call my mom and dad more often,” Niall declares.

“Aww,” Zayn pinches his cheek and he swats him away. “I'm gonna call you more.” Niall beams. “Maybe my sisters, too,” Zayn shrugs.

Niall grins lazily and throws his arm around Zayn's waist, seemingly swaying on the happy line between drunk and not. Louis feels the same way, albeit a bit further over the line: everything feels hazy and warm and _good._

“Anyone you wanna call?” Niall inquires, turning to Louis. “To say Happy New Year and all?”

“'lready found my family,” he slurs. He had, to his credit, pulled himself together enough to go inside his house and see his mom and his littlest sisters at midnight before they were promptly ushered off to bed. Granted, that was ten minutes ago, before the extra shots Niall gave him at midnight had time to settle in his bloodstream.

“Yeah, but anyone else?” Niall persists. “Anyone special?”

Louis furrows his brow and searches through his brain, because Zayn and Niall are both looking at him pointedly, so there _must_ be someone he's forgetting. He squints his eyes.

“Harry!” he recalls suddenly, smiling wide at the thought. “Wonderful, lovely Harry,” he murmurs.

“Maybe you should call him!” Niall suggests with enthusiasm.

Maybe he should, he thinks. Lovely, lovely Harry that he wants to talk to more than anyone; beautiful, sweet Harry. Why didn't he think of him? Why hasn't he called him? He thinks that maybe he’s been scared of something, but that's silly. Not calling him is silly. Louis is silly. He needs to call him; he needs to call him _all_ the time.

He feels as if his brain is riding on a happy cloud of fog as he listens to the phone ring, sways to the sound until it clicks.

“Hullooooo,” the voice answers in sing-song, smooth and easy. _Harry._ If his voice is any indication, he's just as drunk as Louis, if not more.

“Harry,” Louis sighs into the phone. “Harry, it’s -”

“Happy new year!” Harry shouts, laughing.

Louis shakes his head fondly. “Exactly how much have you had to drink tonight?”

“A lot,” he can hear Harry grin over the phone. “Liam said, had to forget – something. Said I was _moping._ ” He giggles. “Had to forget _Louieeeee._ ”

Louis suddenly feels painfully sober.

“Louis,” Harry repeats, giggling. “Louis, Louis. I miss Louis.” He sighs. “But – no. But Louis _left_ me. Gotta not thinkabout Louis. Gotta get drunk and forget about Louis, gotta” - he hiccups. “I kissed a boy at midnight!” he declares proudly.

“Yeah?” Louis replies carefully. “Good for you.” He tries to sound genuine. After all, of course Harry has a life outside of him. And of course he could get any guy he'd ever want, with those curls and eyes and voice. It's not like Louis can expect him to not just move on after the way they parted – there’s not even anything to move on _from._ So why wouldn't he?

But then Harry continues, voice growing pouty again. “But he wasn't _Louis_. Wasn't as pretty as Louis. And,” he adds, “he tasted like fish.” He giggles. Louis doesn't know what to say.

“Are you sure it wasn't an assortment of largemouth bass in a suit, _disguising_ themselves as a human?” he asks seriously.

Harry erupts into another fit of giggles and hiccups. “I like you!” he declares. “You're funny. You're – wait, who is this?”

“Just a friend,” Louis replies, softly. “Just, a friend who wanted to wish you a happy New Year.”

“Oh, okay.” He seems satisfied enough with that answer. “I love friends,” Harry sighs happily. Then, “Friends, friends. You have a pretty voice, friend.”

Louis chokes. “Thank you. So do you, by the way.” He can see Harry's beaming smile even over the phone.

He hears a muffled voice sound out from somewhere around Harry, and he shouts out. “A FRIEND!”

“Hey, I can - I should probably let you go, yeah?”

“Oh,” is all Harry says, the disappointment ringing clear.

“But,” he adds hastily – “you can text me tomorrow, or something, if you want. If you remember. Okay?”

That seems to placate him. “O-kay,” he agrees melodiously.

“But I should probably let you go,” he repeats. “Goodnight, Harry. Happy New Year.”

“G'night, _friend_. Happy New Yearrrrr.” The slurred word grows fainter and fainter until the call finally ends.

Louis flops his head against the wall.

So that was interesting. On one hand, at least Harry doesn't seem to _hate_ him. Well, maybe he does a little, but he clearly has conflicting feelings, so that's some consolation. But on the other hand it’s just _sad_. Knowing that he has made Harry feel sad, sad in a way that he doesn’t deserve, is a terrible feeling. Maybe Louis can still apologize. If he can have an actual conversation with him later. Luckily – or unluckily, depending on how he looks at it – Harry probably won't remember that this call even happened.

He sighs and starts back toward the bonfire. The yard still feels like it's spinning a bit, but his eyes settle on the orange glow of the flames, the silhouettes of Niall and Zayn straightening themselves from where they were leaning strangely toward his direction.

“How was Harry, then?” Niall asks breezily. Louis startles a bit, then narrows his eyes.

“How do you know it was –”

Niall shrugs. “Just a guess.”

“Wait. Was this some kind of _plot_ all along?”

“What're you talking about?” Niall slurs, clearly trying to sound more inebriated than he is.

Louis narrows his eyes. “Zayn? I know you're driving home, so you're not _that_ drunk.”

Zayn shrugs, this infuriating little smirk appearing on his lips. “Dunno what you're talking about.”

“Okay, then. I wasn't talking to anyone,” Louis turns on his heel and walks back toward the house, Niall's cackles echoing behind him.

***

Harry wakes up from a bizarre dream that he's watching a team of tiny people pound hammers against the inside of his skull in rhythm with his pulse. Only, he realizes as he awakens, the sensation is painfully real. He stretches and reaches for the water bottle he had the forethought to leave beside the bed, then pulls the covers back over his head to drown out the jarring late-morning light.

It's not that he's never been drunk before – it's kind of inevitable when you're friends with Niall Horan – it's just he's never been quite _that_ drunk before. Sometime after he arrived, he'd decided that he should just go along with Liam’s advice: the best course of action would be to get spectacularly drunk, drunk enough to forget that Louis even existed, even if only for the night.

That turned out to require _a lot_ of alcohol. But he thinks he managed, in the end. His memories get pretty fuzzy after about eleven o'clock, but he can piece together some of the night in his hazy mind. He remembers taking off his shirt and running around Liam's yard holding sparklers up to his nipples. He remembers downing shots of something dark and strong in some kind of senseless drinking game that he'd invented with the red-haired guy, and that several more people eventually joined. He remembers Liam sequestering him to the porch when they started setting up the bigger fireworks, because he was getting simultaneously entranced and frightened by them and kept getting too close. “Like a puppy,” Liam had said, shaking his head.

He remembers catching some tall guy's eye during the countdown to midnight, shimmying over to him through the crowd, and getting his New Year’s kiss. It was one of Liam's high school friends' friend's friend, or something, tall with his hair gelled up in a quiff and a big mouth. He scrunches his nose as the memory flashes back. He doesn't remember much, but he knows it wasn't a particularly good kiss.

He remembers pulling away to call his mom and his dad and his sister to wish them a happy New Year. And then - he remembers calling someone else. Or someone called him, maybe? He's not sure. He can’t  quite grasp onto the memory. He opens his eyes and finds his cell phone; his call history will settle the question. He squints at the unwelcome white light. The most recent number called him, but he doesn't recognize it, though he appears to have added a name. First name: fish emoji; last name: shirt and tie emoji. Stacked on top of each other, it looks like a fish wearing the shirt. Huh. Drunk-Harry makes some interesting decisions.

Suddenly another memory flickers back in his mind: a voice, sweet and high and deadpan, echoing, “an assortment of largemouth bass in a suit...”

And then it hits him.

It was _Louis_. His eyes shoot open. He's almost, positively, 99.9% certain that the person he talked to last night was Louis. Which doesn't make sense – how did he even get his number? But that voice, he remembers, high and silky and making him laugh like an idiot – and oh, god, what did he _say_ to him? He covers his face with his hands. He was _so_ drunk. How was he drunk enough that he didn't even realize the person he was talking to? And if he was that drunk, then what did he _tell_ him?

He may, he realizes as a slow wave of horror crawls over him, have told Louis that he spent the night drinking specifically and copiously in order to forget _him._ And that he kissed a boy at midnight, which might have been when Louis suggested that said boy was actually largemouth bass wearing a suit. And Harry had proceeded to laugh like a fool. Basically, he'd embarrassed himself enough to last a lifetime.

And what does Louis remember? He's fairly certain Louis was drunk, too, though clearly not quite as much. He was probably confused, and most likely also horrified, at Harry's behavior. That’s probably why he ended the call so soon; it only lasted about three minutes.

But, he thinks, he does remember something, before they ended the call. Louis said something about Harry getting back to him, texting him today after he wakes up. He grimaces, but somehow he can't even begin to fight it, his fingers gravitating to the keypad.

He writes and then erases about five different text messages before he settles onan emoji. It's the one that Liam always uses, the monkey with his hands over his eyes. It seems to succinctly convey what he wants to say. He presses send, heart pounding in his chest, and waits for the reply.

The text bubble that Louis is typing appears a moment later, and he holds his breath. But he doesn't have to hold it long; Louis response appears. It's two emojis: a fish, and on the next line, below it, the shirt and tie. A fish in a suit.

Harry wills his hands to stop trembling as he types out the letters.

**_So I guess I don't have to ask how much you remember from last night?_ **

_Nope, I remember it all pretty well_

**_I'm sorry, I was really really drunk_ **

He takes a deep breath and quickly sends the follow-up.

**_I think I mentioned the reasons, so._ **

Louis types for nearly half a minute, the text bubble appearing and disappearing.

_I deserved it. I'm sorry I left you like that and never got your number_

_I didn't even think about it, and not because i didn't want to, but I guess I kinda felt like i already knew you so well, even after just a day_

And then: _I've missed you just as much, just so you know._

The words send a surge of adrenaline through Harry's body. His brain spins to process what he just read, and he doesn’t know how to respond. So instead, he blindly asks the question he's been holding in the back of his mind:

**_How did you get my number?_ **

_Oh, right.  Niall gave it to me_

Which - **_What?_**

_Niall Horan, hyperactive happy blond kid? I think he's the one you sing with, the one that taught you to play guitar?_

Harry rolls his eyes in spite of his nervousness. **_I know who he is! How do you know him?_**

_Turns out he's my best friend's boyfriend. Zayn. So he's here staying with him for the rest of the break, and we were all hanging out and I guess he just pieced it together?_

_Small world._

Which means Louis must have been talking about him. Which –

“Harry!” Liam yells and raps at the door. “You awake? C'mon, breakfast.”

“Yeah, coming,” Harry croaks.

**_Yeah,_** he types weakly before rolling out from the bed to put on a shirt and go out.

Harry's phone buzzes twice during breakfast, and he refrains from looking at it as Liam eyes him suspiciously over their breakfast of toasted waffles and dark coffee and a few Aspirin each. But Liam doesn't say anything about it during breakfast, when they converse lightly about the party and their hangovers and their plans for the rest of the break; nor does he comment during the rounds of Super Smash Bros. they play afterwards on Liam's sisters' Wii, even when Harry maybe purposely loses so he can surreptitiously keep texting.

It's not until Harry is leaving to drive back, when Liam hugs him tight and then looks him in the eye, hand still on his shoulder, with a meaningful “I hope it works out,” as if he's still deciding for himself if he really does. Harry can't really blame him; Liam can get a little protectively disgruntled about things like this.

By the time he gets home, he has two messages waiting for him from Louis. One, asking him how Christmas went. The second:

_Tell me if I’m bugging you, by the way. I like you, but I technically hardly know you, and I fucked up and it’s your choice, so tell me if you want me to fuck off._

“I do choose you,” Harry almost types, before setting for **_No, you're not bugging me. I was just driving home._ ** And then: **_Me too, so you know._**

They text back and forth almost nonstop for the rest of the day, and for most of the day after. Louis is so funny and eager and easy to talk to, and Harry has to hold himself back from recounting every single thing that happens during the day, from the food he eats to the songs that come on the radio.  He also can’t help but relate everything that has happened since they last spoke on Christmas Eve. He shows him the photos he took of the girls with the snowball-throwers they’d bought, and Louis assures him that all of his sisters jumped in the air and squealed – even the oldest one – when they opened the gifts that Harry helped him mail out.

They talk about their families and the other presents everyone got, their favorite Christmas songs and their Christmas dinners. They have whole conversations entirely in emoji.

They share baby photos, after Louis mentions his mom has brought out an embarrassing old photo album. Harry begs him for pictures until he concedes, but he demands photos of small Harry in return. Harry actually accepts that he was a pretty cute baby, but Louis is utterly adorable, all round cheeks and sparkling eyes and mischievous smiles. He hasn't changed much.

On the second night, Harry finally works up the nerve to call him. He knows Louis is at home, and it’s late enough that he probably isn’t busy. Harry settles on the head of his bed holding his finger over the green call button, wondering what Louis will say when he answers. But then, before he can press it, his own phone starts ringing, Louis' name – he changed it to Louis' actual name, finally - flashing across the front.

“Great minds think alike,” Louis grins through the phone when Harry tells that he was just about to call him.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, momentarily stunned, because his _voice._ “It’s like you’re my mirror,” he recovers weakly, and he can practically hear Louis’ eye roll as he chuckles in response.

“Justin Timberlake, _really?_ ”

“What, he’s good!” Harry protests.

“Right,” Louis says dryly. “I forgot you like all the same music as my little sisters.”

“Maybe they just have _good taste,_ unlike their cynical big brother.” Louis snorts.

They talk until his eyelids can hardly stay open, and he decides to close them, just for a moment. The next thing he registers is Louis’ voice:

“Harry? You still there?”

“Yeah,” he replies sleepily. “Sorry.”

“You can tell me if you’re falling asleep, you know.  I’ll let you go.” He sounds amused.

“But I’ll miss you,” Harry responds, realizing belatedly that his sleepiness has taken away any filter.

Louis just laughs. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? You get to sleep.”

“Okay,” Harry pouts.

“Sweet dreams, Harry.” And then, a little more softly, “I’ll miss you, too.”

“Goodnight,” Harry says, and he falls asleep, phone still pressed to the smile on his face.

***

“I was going to make us waffles the next morning – you know, like you said, for your birthday…” Harry trails off.

A choke of guilt rises in Louis’ throat. Sometimes Harry says things like this, out of the blue, and he doesn’t mean it to, but it just make Louis feel so sad.

“I mean – I’m just saying,” Harry hurries to correct himself when Louis hasn’t responded. “It’s okay, but I thought  –”

“No, I know. I’m sorry.”

“No – like, it’s not even your fault. It just kind of happened. And if anything, it’s as much my fault as yours. Besides, I’m not the one who missed out on waffles. And – I know you weren’t actually _trying_ to ruin Christmas.”

Louis laughs, tension broken for now. “But I really am sorry. I’m gonna make it up to you, okay?” _Someday soon,_ he wants to add, but he’s still not sure when they’ll actually _see_ each other. Even as they’ve been talking almost nonstop for the past few days, the topic of actually meeting again hasn’t come up. Or at least, Harry hasn’t brought it up, and Louis doesn’t want to be pushy.

“No, Louis, it’s okay,” Harry starts, soft and reassuring again. “And actually – wait, hold –”

Louis hears yelling in the background.

“What was that?”

Harry laughs. “My sister - she says if I don’t come to lunch she’s gonna disconnect the phone.”  

“You can’t even do that to a cell phone.”

“You can’t even _do_ that to a cell phone!” he hears Harry shout back gleefully. A muffled thump is heard. “She threw a stuffed penguin at me,” Harry explains, giggling.

“You go on, though,” Louis shakes his head fondly. “I’m almost at Zayn’s, anyway.”

“Louis! You can’t talk to me while you’re driving.”

“It’s on speaker,” he retorts.

“But still – okay, well, I gotta go, anyways. Say hi to Niall and Zayn for me.”

“Alright, I will. Talk to you later.”

Louis pulls up into Zayn’s driveway, waving at his little sisters riding their new scooters down the street.

A text arrives as he gets out of the car. _Have fun xx._

Louis grins and starts typing back, nearly running into Zayn in the doorway.

_“Lou,_ ” Zayn repeats, waving a hand in front of his face.

“Lou!” Niall screeches, coming around behind him to conspicuously peer at his phone.

“Hey,” he says, pulling away, but Niall just grins as they go inside.

“So I was thinking. We’re all getting back by Sunday morning, so we should all go get lunch, or something. Me and Zayn and Liam, and you and Harry. You know, so we can all hang out, and you can see each other again, and I – er, we – can witness the reunion.”

Zayn snorts. “He’s obsessed.”

“Am not.” Niall protests. “Though it _was_ gonna be a surprise, but –”

“But Niall can’t plan surprises for shit,” Zayn supplies, and Niall mock-glares at him for a moment, then laughs.

“ _Anyway,_ ” Niall continues, “Harry’s agreed to it, and Liam and Zayn. So you’ll come, right? Just lunch – afterwards you two can go off –” He waggles his eyebrows again, and Louis rolls his eyes but agrees.

“Sure, of course.”  It’s not quite soon enough to see Harry, given that they’re both returning Saturday afternoon, but it’ll have to do. Especially since Harry already agreed.

“Cool,” Zayn nods. “We’ll talk about the where and when later –”

“And you’d better be on time.” Niall warns. “Don’t wanna get on Liam’s bad side.” He doesn’t sound totally joking. Zayn snorts.

“What’s wrong with Liam?” Louis looks between them. “I met him; he seemed nice.”

“Oh, he is. He can just get a little… paternal, at times, with his friends. Has been like that since we were kids.” he shrugs. “He may have given Zayn a talk when we started seeing each other.”

“Fairly terrifying,” Zayn supplies with a nod.  

“And, not to scare you, but he already knows what happened betweenyou two.”

“And so I’ll probably be in for a worse one, then,” Louis finishes, and they don’t agree, but they don’t deny it, either.

“Just have to get on his good side, is all,” Niall shrugs. “Show that you care, be all proper romantic and woo-ing.”

Zayn grins and kisses Niall on the  cheek. “That’s what I did.”  

“Right,” Louis says slowly.

They play FIFA for a while, Louis simultaneously delighted and angered to find that Niall is actually a worthy opponent. They play Mario Kart, where Zayn obliterates them all. They order a pizza and even get to eat a few slices before Niall inhales the rest.

Louis has gone a commendably long time without talking to Harry, really. But then his phone buzzes, and he can’t control the grin that appears on his face.

“Harry,” Zayn says with an eyeroll, and Niall hops over the couch leans over to peer over his shoulder.

“Hey!”

“Niall wants to know what you’ve been _talking_ about,” Zayn explains matter-of-factly, pulling Niall back by the side of his t-shirt and curling his arm around his waist.

“Do not!” Niall protests. “And anyway, don’t I deserve to see the result of my work? I’m the one who _basically_ set you up.”

“Sure,” Louis grins, before conspicuously typing, **_Niall keeps reading over my shoulder._**

The message that comes back is a picture of Niall, mid-chew with his eyes crossed looking at the giant hotdog in his mouth. Louis barks out a laugh.  

“Hey!” Niall protests when he sees it, and Zayn chuckles.

“You kind of set yourself up for that.”

Louis takes the opportunity to snap his own awkward photo of his face and send it back, Harry responding with another of his own. Zayn and Louis howl with laughter. Niall glares.

“Just wait til Sunday,” he mutters.

Sunday is three days from now. The day after tomorrow he’ll go home, and the next day he’ll see Harry. Three days.

It's hard to hold back his excitement to see himin person again.  Later that night, after he’s gone home for dinner, tucked in his littlest sisters to bed and read them a _Shrek_ picture book they’d gotten for Christmas (“Do all the voices!” they’d convinced him gleefully), he calls Harry again.

“So I guess I’ll see you on Sunday? Niall told me he planned this lunch thing.”

“Yeah,” Harry snorts, sounding amused. “He does that.”  Then, softly, “I guess I’ll finally get see you then?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

It’s as far as they talk about it. Harry tells him about his day, and Louis tells Harry about his. Harry guilts him into reciting the _Shrek_ book to _him_ and doing the voices, and Harry laughs like a kid, and they talk until both of them are nearly falling asleep.

“Gonna go to bed?”

“Okay,” Harry yawns.

“I can’t wait to see you, you know,” he blurts out, because it’s true.

A shy smile creeps onto his voice. “Me, too.”

“G‘night.”

“Goodnight Louis.”

He stays awake for a while longer thinking about Harry. He remembers the first time he saw him in the post office, and the way he grinned building the snowman; he wonders if he’ll look the same on Sunday when he finally sees him. _Sunday._

It’s not enough, he realizes suddenly. He can’t wait any longer. Lunch isn’t soon enough; how can he wait a whole morning? Hell, breakfast wouldn’t be soon enough, either. It will never be soon enough. A hazy plan pops into his mind. He creeps to the living room and rummages through the desk to find a piece of paper, takes it back to his room, and starts writing.

***

Harry steps out of the cab and onto the the slushy side of the road outside his dorm just as the sunset has begun creeping yellow-pink through the sky. He wonders if he would seem too needy if he texted Louis that he’s arrived, wonders if he's already back here too, wonders if he's thinking about him. His flight left a little earlier, and it's nearly the same length, Harry thinks, too, so he should be home by now. Harry didn’t want to seem clingy and suggest they meet up tonight, right after both of them landed – as Louis hadn’t said anything, either - but now he’s beginning to regret it.

He unlocks the door to his dorm room and drops the luggage on the floor, shrugs off his coat. Liam looks up from his spot lying on his bed with his laptop.

“Hey,” he says, and Liam looks at him and smiles.

“Hi.” He close the laptop and sits up suddenly. “I was actually just leaving,” he grabs a backpack that Harry hadn’t noticed beside his bed. “I’m gonna go see Sophia, spend the night at her place before her roommates get back. See you tomorrow, though, yeah?”

“Okay,” Harry says. “Have fun.” He wishes that Liam had informed him of this plan beforehand. Would it be too forward to invite Louis over now?

Liam gives him a pat on the shoulder and a look that might include a wink, though Harry doesn’t think much of it as he leaves the room. Harry turns to put his luggage up on the chair so he can start unpacking. And then he sees it: a light-yellow envelope placed neatly on the center of his desk. It looks like the kind that comes with fancy stationery, a sparrow embossed on one side.  

“What’s this?” he murmurs to himself, and turns it over. _Harry Styles,_ it says across the front, the writing neat but somehow playful. He carefully tears it open across the top and pulls out a folded piece of paper, lined and bordered with more of the little birds.

 

_Dear Harry,_

_I know you like letters so I thought I’d write you one. I know we were supposed to have lunch with everyone tomorrow, but I don’t know if I can wait to see you any longer. So if you get this, I’ll be in the park, in the same place as last time. You can come, if you’d like._

_Louis_

It’s from _Louis._ He reads it again to make sure he didn’t imagine it; he didn’t. He blinks and fingers the letter in his hand as he tries to process it. Louis. Wants to see him. Somehow got this letter into his room. Louis – _planned_ something.

He nearly forgets to throw his hat and coat back on before he sprints back out the door and toward the park.

This time, he knows exactly where to find him. The park is empty at this time of the evening, snow sparkling undisturbed beneath the trees. And then there’s Louis, plopped cross-legged in the snow in the same corner, same coat and red hat, leaning beside a sizeable snowman with two goofy arms, the dusky sunlight illuminating the whole scene in glowing orange. Harry can’t help breaking into a run. Finally Louis finally sees him, looks up with this little wave and breaks out into a huge, shining smile.

“He was still here?” Harry asks incredulously when he gets close enough, motioning at the snowman.

“Kinda?” Louis shrugs and looks up at him, shielding his eyes with his hand. “I found him, but only a little lump was left.”

“So you rebuilt him?” Louis nods up at him, and Harry feels like his heart might burst. “Louis – how long have you been here? You must be freezing.” Louis shrugs again, smile not fading as he just continues to _look_ at him. “And how did you –” he pulls out the paper that he didn’t realize he was gripping inside his pocket. “How did you even get this in my room?”

“Liam,” Louis says. “I mean, I got his number from Zayn, and asked if he could help. Honestly, I think he thinks he’s your dad or something. Made me promise to take care of you. But I told him - I think he thought it was romantic, you know. Guess he approved.”

“Well, yeah - he left our room for the night to stay with his girlfriend,” Harry says, suddenly figuring out the meaning behind their exchange, the hurried exit and quick wink. Louis must have really convinced him.

But Louis’ cheeks turn a little pink. “I didn’t - I didn’t ask him to do that, or anything! I swear.”

Harry laughs. “It’s okay.” Then: “Niall’s gonna be so mad we saw each other without him. What are we going to say to him?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Louis rolls his eyes. “The boy is a menace.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry shakes his head, smiling because it’s so _Louis._

“Any more questions?” Louis asks, arching an eyebrow up at him and leaning back in the snow.

Harry only has one. “Why aren’t you kissing me yet?”

And Louis jumps up to his feet and practically melts into him, first pulling him in a tight, tight hug, breathing into his ear, “I missed you,” and then a kiss, soft and hard all at once, better than everything Harry could imagine, everything he’s _been_ imagining.

Louis pulls away after a minute. “Do you want to get – dinner, hot chocolate, something?”

“Are you – are you recreating the day we spent together?”

“Maybe,” Louis grins. “With improvements.”

And Harry kisses him again: his lips, pushing aside his scarf to kiss down to his neck, his collarbone, back up to his ear. He can feel Louis shiver against him. “Can we just get to the part where we’re in my bed together?” Harry murmurs against the shell of his ear, more breathless than he intended.

Louis’ breath hitches, and he pulls back to look at him and nods, blue eyes wide, pupils blown even under the last shining rays of sunset.

Harry just needs Louis in his bed, _now._ So kisses him once more, grabs onto his hand and starts dragging him back toward the dorm, sharing furtive, grinning glances in the streetlights. Harry avoids the gazes of the passers by, willing himself to _not_ look like he’s about to finally get the guy walking next to him into his bed; but he’s fairly sure he’s not doing a great job of it. And even Louis, the real-life actor, can only keep a straight face until he looks at Harry and completely loses control of the smile bursting onto his lips. Harry bumps their hips together and pulls him harder through the streets, through the building - thank god they don’t run into anyone he knows in the hallway - and, finally, into his room.

They’ve hardly closed the door when Louis is practically pouncing on Harry, crowding into his space with a heated kiss, harder than before. Harry kisses back, just as fervently, and lets himself be pushed back, back, up against the closet wall, clothes clattering behind him. Louis’ hands run all over his body, pushing off his coat and his hat and tugging through his hair. Harry hums softly at the touch, helps shrug off Louis’ coat and presses his hands against his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, their bodies pressed together, and - fuck, he can suddenly feel that they’re both hard against each other’s thighs.

Louis registers the moment, too, pulls him back harder, purposefully grinding his leg against Harry's crotch, and he lets out a stuttered moan. Harry lets his hands ruck up his shirt and slide up his warm skin, and Louis does the same, his hands squeezing Harry’s hip and creeping down, toward his groin. Harry exhales a desperate “yes” into his mouth lets his own fingers move down to grasp at the button on Louis’ jeans, and Louis mirrors the action. Harry wins, allowing himself to smirk as he unbuttons him with one hand while Louis struggles a little longer; but then Louis is swiftly slipping his hand down into Harry’s pants and grabbing him, _hard_ , and then he forgets how to smirk altogether.

***

Louis wakes up to the morning sun, his bare body pressed warm against Harry’s, limbs tangled together and Harry’s head tucked up against his chest. Louis bends down to kiss his ear, breathing in the sweet smell of his hair. Harry hums agreeably and snuggles back closer to him, eyes still shut. They lie like that for a while, breathing soft against each other, until Harry cranes back to look at him with sleepy green eyes and a happy sigh.  

“Good morning, Lou.”

“Good morning,” Louis squeezes him tighter and kisses the top of his curly head. “Wanna make waffles?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! [tumblr](http://shipsdrift.tumblr.com)


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